In The Boyhood of Lincoln Part 3

Abraham Lincoln and his sister accompanied Jasper to the log-house. They heard the l.u.s.ty cry for consideration and mercy in the log school-house as they were going, and stopped to listen. Jasper did not approve of this rugged discipline.

"I should not treat the boy in that way," said he philosophically.

"You wouldn't?" said Abraham. "Why? Crawford is a great teacher; he knows everything. He can cipher as far as the rule of three."

"Yes, lad, but the true purpose of education is to form character. Fear does not make true worth, but counterfeit character. If education fails to produce real character, it fails utterly. True education is a matter of the soul as much as of the mind. It should make a boy want to do right because it is the right thing to do right. Anything that fails to produce character for its own sake, and not for a selfish reason, is a mistake. But what am I doing--criticising? Now, that is wrong. I seemed to be talking with Froebel. Yes, Crawford is a great teacher, all things considered. He does well who does his best. You have a great school. It is not like the old German schools, but you do well."

Jasper began a discourse about Pestalozzi and that great thinker's views of universal education. But the words were lost on the air. The views of Pestalozzi were not much discussed in southern Indiana at this time, though the idea of common-school education prevailed everywhere.

Thomas Lincoln stood at the gate awaiting the return of Jasper.

"I'm proper glad that you've come back to see us all," said he. "Wife has been lookin' for ye. What did you think of the school? Great, isn't it? That Crawford is a big man in these parts. They say he can cipher to the rule of three, whatever that may be. Indiana is going to be great on education, in my opinion."

He was right. Indiana, with an investment of some ten million of dollars for public education, and with an army of well-trained teachers, leads the middle West in the excellence of her schools. Her model school system, which to-day would delight a Pestalozzi or a Froebel, had its rude beginning in schools like Crawford's.

"Come, come in," said Thomas Lincoln, and led the way into the log-house.

"This is my wife," said he to Jasper.

The woman had a serene and benevolent face. Her features were open and plain, but there was heart-life in them. It was a face that could have been molded only by a truly good heart. It was strong, long-suffering, sympathetic, and self-restrained. Her forehead was high and thoughtful, her eyes large and expressive, and her voice loving and cheerful. Jasper felt at once that he was in the presence of a woman of decision of character.

"Then you are a Tunker," she said. "I am a Baptist, too, but not your kind. But such things matter little if the heart is right."

"You have well said," answered Jasper. "The true life is in the soul. We both belong to the same kingdom, and shall have the same life and drink from the same fountain and eat the same bread. Have you been here long?"

"Yes," said Thomas Lincoln, "and we have seen some dark days. We lived in the half-faced camp out yonder when I first came here. My first wife died of milk-sickness here. She was Abraham's mother. Ever heard of the milk-sickness, as the fever was called? It swept away a great many of the early inhabitants. Those were dark, dark days. I shall never forget them."

"So your real mother is dead," said Jasper to Abraham.

"I try to be a mother to him, poor boy," said Mrs. Lincoln. "Abraham is good to me and to everybody; one of the best boys I ever knew, though I ought not to praise him to his face. He does the best he can."

"Awful lazy. You didn't tell that," said Thomas Lincoln; "all head and books. He is. I believe in tellin' the whole truth."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Lincoln, "some persons work with their hands, and some with their heads, and some with their hearts. Abraham's head is always at work--he isn't like most other boys. And as far as his heart--Well, I do love that boy, and I am his step-mother, too. He's always been so good to me that I love to tell on't. His father, I'm thinkin', is rather hard on him sometimes. Abe's heart knows mine and I know his'n, and I couldn't think more on him if he was my own son. His poor mother sleeps out there under the great trees; but I mean to be such a mother to him that he will never know no difference."

"Yes," said Thomas Lincoln, "Abraham does middlin' well, considerin'.

But he does provoke me sometimes. He would provoke old Job himself. Why, he will take a book with him into the corn-field, and he reads and reads, and his head gets loose and goes off into the air, and he puts the pumpkin-seeds in the wrong hills, like as not. He is great on the English Reader. I'd just like for you to hear him recite poetry out of that book. He's great on poetry; writes it himself. But that isn't neither here nor there. Come, preacher, we'll have some supper."

The Tunker lifted his hand and said grace, after which the family sat down to the table.

"We used to eat off a puncheon when we first came to these parts," said Mr. Lincoln. "We had no beds, and we slept on a floor of pounded clay.

My new wife brought all of this grand furniture to me. That beereau looks extravagant--now don't it?--for poor folks, too. I sometimes think that she ought to sell it. I am told that in a city place it would be worth as much as fifty dollars."

There were indeed a few good articles of furniture in the house.

The supper consisted of corn-bread of very rough meal, and of bacon, eggs, and coffee.

"Do you smoke?" asked Mr. Lincoln, when the meal was over.

"No," said Jasper. "I have given up everything of that kind, luxuries, and even my own name. Let us talk about our experiences. There is no news in the world like the news from the soul. A man's inner life and experience are about all that is worth talking about. It is the king that makes the crown."

But Thomas Lincoln was not a man of deep inward experiences and subjective ideas, though his first wife had been such a person, and would have delighted Jasper. Mr. Lincoln liked best to talk about his family and the country, and was more interested in the slow news that came from the new settlements than in the revelations from a higher world. His former wife, Abraham's mother, had been a mystic, but there was little sentiment in him.

"You said that you were going to meet Black Hawk," said Mr. Lincoln.

"Where do you expect to find him? He's everywhere, ain't he?"

"I am going to the Sac village at Rock Island. It is a long journey, but the Voice tells me to go."

"That is away across the Illinois, on the Mississippi River, isn't it?"

"Yes, the Sac village looks down on the Mississippi. It is a beautiful place. The prairies spread around it like seas. I love to think of it.

It commands a n.o.ble view. I do not wonder that the Indians love it, and made it the burial-place of their race. I would love it myself."

"You favor the Indians, do you?"

"Yes. All men are my brothers. The field is the world. I am going to try to preach and teach among the Sacs and Foxes, as soon as I can find an interpreter, and Black Hawk has promised me one. He has sent for him to come down to Rock Island and meet me. He lives at Prairie du Chien, far away in the north, I am told."

"Don't you have any antipathy against the Indians, preacher?"

"No, none at all. Do you?"

"My father was murdered by an Indian. Let me tell you about it. Not that I want to discourage you--you mean well; but I don't feel altogether as you do about the red-skins, preacher. You and Abe would agree better on the subject than you and I. Abe is tender-hearted--takes after his mother."

Thomas Lincoln filled his pipe. "Abe," as his oldest boy was called, sat in the fireplace, "the flue," as it was termed. By his side sat John Hanks, who had recently arrived from Kentucky--a rough, kindly-looking man.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LINES WRITTEN BY LINCOLN ON THE LEAF OF HIS SCHOOL-BOOK IN HIS FOURTEENTH YEAR.

Preserved by his Step-mother.

_Original in possession of J. W. Weik._]

"Wait a minute," said great-hearted Mrs. Lincoln--"wait a minute before you begin."

"What are you going to do, mother (wife)?"

"I'm just going to set these potatoes to roast before the fire, so we can have a little treat all by ourselves when you have got through your story. There, that is all."

The poor woman sat down by the table--she had brought the table to her husband on her marriage; he probably never owned a table--and began to knit, saying:

"Abraham, you mind the potatoes. Don't let 'em burn."

"Yes, mother."

"Mother"--the word seemed to make her happy. Her face lighted. She sat knitting for an hour, silent and serene, while Thomas Lincoln talked.

_THOMAS LINCOLN'S STORY._